


Wrong Place, Right Time

by charlies_not_here



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Actually pretty much no comfort just sass, Artist Steve Rogers, Concussions, Everyone is sassy, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Nightmares, Peter Parker is done, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sassy Peter, Sassy Steve Rogers, Sleep Paralysis, Steve is a sentimentalist for the day, Waffles, Worried Bucky Barnes, at least in the first chapter, he's an artist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-11-14 06:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18047720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlies_not_here/pseuds/charlies_not_here
Summary: "You've been following me?"Steve shrugged unabashedly, "Yeah, Buck was worried you'd collapse and die in a McDonalds Play Place so I agreed to make sure you got home safe.""Ha ha," Peter was really so done with all the jabs at his age. He could punch and take punches like the rest of them, why did it matter that he'd only just lost his baby fat?-Or:Peter's take-down of Toomes interrupts a minor mission of Cap and The Gang, so after witnessing everything they decide to help the kid out.





	1. The Renegade

If this was going to be a pattern, prom was out of the question.  
  
Peter lay squinting blankly at the smoke filled sky, gritty sand and sharp debris digging into his shoulder blades, wondering again why he couldn't leave well enough alone.

Damn hero complex.

A groan to his left snapped his attention back to his biggest problem at the moment - y'know aside from the millions of dollars literally burning around him.

Muscles screaming in harmony with his head, he pulled himself up with one last bout of adrenaline, his job wasn't done and he could get back to hating himself later.

"Wh-why-"

"Shut up. _Shut up_. I don't want to talk-"

Toomes squinted up at the boy, eyes watering from the grit and smoke as his brain tried to piece together what had just happened.

"Why did you save me?" He croaked.

Peter heaved a weary sigh and glared down at him.

"I don't want you to die. I don't want _anyone_ to die. I'm just. . . god this heroing thing is so _stupid_. . ."

Toomes raised an eyebrow, wondering if the kid had hit his head a bit too hard during the past hour. Of course, he _had_ dropped a building on the punk, so it was more than likely he was a bit concussed.

Studying the wreckage burning around them Toomes gritted his teeth, _if the kid wasn't such a fucking cockroach everything would have been fine. He wouldn't be laying here broken and burned about to leave his family with nothing but misplaced betrayal. Idiot Stark and this idiot kid didn't know wha-_

Toomes was dragged out of his poisonous thoughts, literally, as said kid latched onto his shoulders and heaved him over to a nearby box and sat him up against it.

Despite the clear trembling in his hands, Toomes was still shocked at how strong Peter was. He looked like every other teenage boy- gangly, awkward, skinny as a twig- but beneath his every movement was an unnatural power. Almost graceful, if it weren't for the jittery energy ever-present in his limbs.

The boy used his wrist-web-making-contraption-thing (-Mason would be obsessed-) to trap him to the side, and just for the sake of it Toomes yanked at the delicate looking strings, sighing in tired defeat when it got him nowhere.

"Stay," Peter huffed wearily as he stalked off to gather what wreckage he could.

Peter picked his way through burning debris, quite terrified that some fragile mystical artifact or underdeveloped experiment of Tony's would explode at any second as the weight and temperatures shifted.

His hands felt like they were burning all over again by the time he was satisfied that everything salvageable was collected and safe from harm.

His brain felt swollen and the stab wounds in his shoulders throbbed in time with his slowing heartbeat. God, he was tired.

Distantly he heard sirens, heard the squeal of tires getting dangerously close. Quickly he grabbed a nearby piece of charred wood and wrote a note to go with his absurd present, ignoring Toomes as he stuck it next to the man's sweaty, wrinkly head. He really did look like a bird of prey, right down to the beady eyes and too-long neck.

Peter regarded him for a moment, Toomes glaring at him like he wanted to throw him under the nearest building, and uttered the one thing that came to his sluggish mind.

"I'm sorry."

Toomes sputtered as Peter trudged away, at a loss for words as his future burned around him.

-

Peter leaned against the metal beams of the Cyclone, cold metal digging into the raw flesh of his back as he watched bewildered first responders and clean-up crew pick through wreckage and put out the small fires speckling the length of the beach. Through hazey vision Peter thought he could make out Happy discovering Toomes. A brief hint of pride struck Peter's exhausted brain. He'd done it, finally taken down a Big Bad.

For one dizzy second he debated going back, facing the authorities and Happy- allow the man to drag him back to the Avengers HQ and . . . and what? And let Tony see how much of a mess he made? All the damage he'd caused not just for the city but for the rest of the Avengers too? Not to mention all the injury he'd caused himself.

Tony was right, he wasn't ready for all this.

But. . . _he'd done it._

Peter groaned loudly at the sky, trying to put a stop to all the emotions and thoughts rocketing around his skull. He seriously needed some advil and ten hours of sleep. Also, probably some antiseptic and gauze for his wounds and. . . and. . . none of that was going to happen if he continued sitting up here the rest of the night.

Heaven forbid he pass out up here and fall. Survive a car crash, collapsed building, plane crash, _and_ explosion only to break his neck in a fifteen foot fall?

No thanks.

The disaster of homecoming was enough humiliation for one night, thank you very much.

It took longer than he'll ever admit, but eventually he managed to force his bruised and battered body upright. Adrenaline was a bitch.

Also, being knocked bodily hundreds of miles an hour against the side of a Stark Jet.

What a life.

Peter ignored the pounding in his head and nausea in his throat as he swung down the coaster one-handed, stumbling to the sidewalk and only just managing to stay upright. His broken rib- (he was almost certain it was broken, but he'd only broken one once before and that was months ago and under much different circumstances so he didn't have much to go on), shifted and made his lungs stutter as he took stock of himself.

As his hands were badly burned, (again, curse the damned hero complex), and his shoulder muscles were torn up from Toomes' handling (talon-ing?), swinging home was probably out of the question. Not to mention the concussion he was sporting was enough for his very,VERY small sense of self- preservation to do it's job.

He reached shakily into the sewn-in pocket on his thigh and brought out his phone, now cracked and busted beyond recognition. He couldn't tell if it was just out of batteries or actually past saving. Maybe he shouldn't be so happy that he'd survived until now because Aunt May was going to kill him anyway.

No swinging, no money, and no phone.

Walking it is then.

With a grumble he set off, limping as he stuck to the shadows of the side-streets, pulling his ripped hoodie over sweat soaked hair.

By some miracle, he made it halfway home without anyone so much as looking at him. Unfortunately, lady luck only had so much patience with one Peter Parker, and just as he stumbled past a row of dark storefronts the singed hair on his arms stood on end and his spidey-sense screamed at the base of his brain, wracking his headache up tenfold.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a large figure ducking through the shadows across the street, and he turned to glare at it.

Unfortunately, his self-preservation tanks were completely sucked dry and he snapped a hoarse: "Whoever you are, fuck off. I've had enough of this city's shit tonight."

Across the street, the man barked out a startled laugh and ran a hand through a shadowed head of hair, stepping off the curb and pacing easily towards Peter.

Peter stumbled back, surprised at the man's equal bluntness and strangely familiar confident gait. That surprise quickly turned to shock as the shadows dispersed and his face came into view.

Peter's concussion must be worse than he thought because he was pretty sure Captain Fucking America was walking towards him on a deserted street in an abandoned, rundown shop district.

"Um. Shou-shouldn't you be in Norway? Or China? Or. . . or _something_?"

Steve chuckled, tugging at the hem of his dark blue hoodie as he grinned, "Sure, probably. Just came back to check on some things. Make sure the city isn't burning down."

"Well all's good here. You can go back to chilling with monks or whatever it is you do now."

The sharp dismissal was probably more due to how much stress his body was under at the moment than anything else, but Tony's face in the aftermath of Germany still hung in the back of his mind as he stared hard at a small scar below Steve's lip. Could the Good Captain even scar? Peter didn't think so and Ned-

". . .eally isn't because we just left an entire beach burning t- Peter? You okay?"

Peter's eyes snapped back to Steve's, shocked once again out of his dazed musings.

"How do you know my n-name?" He demanded.

Steve smirked in amusement, but a heavy worry creased his brow and dulled his gaze as he regarded Peter with unimpressed eyes.

"You're bleeding from two places and you've been stumbling like an irish drunk since you left the beach."

Peter groaned, the noise grating his skull. His concussed brain was full-on one track at this point and he quickly forgot about the major security breach that Steve had just revealed.

"You've been following me?"

Steve shrugged unabashedly, "Yeah, Buck was worried you'd collapse and die in a McDonalds Play Place so I agreed to make sure you got home safe."

"Ha, ha," Peter was really so done with all the jabs at his age. He could punch and take punches like the rest of them, why did it matter that he'd only just lost his baby fat?

"Sorry you had to walk all this way on those feeble old knees. Need help looking for your walker?"

"Jeez kid no need to attack me," he huffed, holding his hands up in mock surrender, "We were just worried, is all."

"Why?"

Steve looked taken aback, studying his bruised face for a moment.

"Because you did good kid, amazing even, but it was still dangerous."

"How do you know what I did?" (How long have they been following him?)  
  
"We, uh, we had eyes on that jet before you even entered the picture," he admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing down the street, "that's actually what we're here for. There was some gear and personal belongings that we hoped were on that jet, but before we could intercept it some teenager wearing joggers and no parachute blew it up."

"Ah. Sorry."

After a moment he added, "you know I have to tell Mr. Stark you were here?"

"Go ahead, Nat will just be upset that she won't be able to see his face when he realizes how easily she hacked his tech," he chuckled fondly.

For some reason the way the war hero turned criminal spoke so lightly about Tony made the tension clinging to Peter's every muscle release all at once. The change in demeanor was so sudden and dramatic that concern shot back into Steve's face as he hunched into himself, arms raising unconsciously to hug his battered torso.

He hissed when his palms met the gritty material of his hoodie, holding them out shakily to inspect.

"Let me see-"

"No-!" He snapped, drawing them back abruptly.

Steve raised an eyebrow, not lowering his hands. Instead he took a small step forward.

"Peter those injuries will only fester into one big headache if you don't treat them as soon as possible. I have a lot of field med experience if you let me."

"Already h've a headache," the boy mumbled stubbornly.

Steve's attention shifted from his hands to his head, and before Peter even realized what was happening two large palms pushed his hood down and framed either side of his head, fingers gently probing until they found the offending bloody bump at the back of his skull; taking in the dried blood dripping from his ears. Steve lifted his face a bit and studied his ill-responding pupils and drooping lids.

He dropped his hands just as Peter was lifting his own to push him off.

"Nope, c'mon. We can sort you out and send you home when I feel more confident in your ability to not pass out on the street."

"What?! No, I hav'ta go home-"

"And you will. Now either you can walk or I can carry you. You choose."

Peter sputtered, weighing his options even as the little kid at the back of his brain screamed stubbornly.

On one hand, his childhood hero and his badass boyfriend whom are currently on the run from the law like some twisted version of Bonnie and Clyde- and on the other, black out in the alley of a shady Taco Bell.

Not great options.

"I can't just. . . May-"

"-would not want to see you like this. If she doesn't kill you for this she'll want to take you to the hospital and then what?"

Peter glared at him.

"Fine," he spat, pulling his hood back over his face, "but kidnap me and I'll set Happy on you."

"Valid threat. Swear I won't kidnap you. No promises for the others though, Sam loves babies"

"Fuck off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pete's a high schooler who deals with the underbelly of New York every night. He cusses.


	2. The Foxhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Um, are we talking about the same billionaire? The one who flies around in a fully weaponized tin can as a hobby?"  
> "This doesn't even make his List of Top Ten Reckless Decisions. Trust me, I'm sure."  
> Captain Rogers. That deep conviction was laced with worry. What was he worried about ?  
> Were they really worried about him? Peter ground his teeth in irritation, concussion be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOly shit you guys i posted the unfinished draft for some fucking reason so here's the finished product god im so embarassed im sorry to those of you who read that last part lmao especially @Eskaybe who commented and drew attention to my well-meaning mistake. Thanks for loving my trash, doll! Hope you still like it lol
> 
> Also its my bday im finally 18!! I made it another year imma *party hard! (*sleep in and read trash fic until I fall back to sleep)

By the time they arrived at the rogue Avenger's safe house, Peter was almost dead on his feet.

After the seventh time he tripped over sluggish limbs and almost bit dust, Steve's steady hand found its way above his elbow and hadn't moved since. The man's callused fingers felt too rough on the youth's burning skin, but its heavy weight helped remind Peter to keep moving instead of crawl into the nearest trashcan and sleep until next Wednesday.

Or die.

That was acceptable too.

Time slopped into an immeasurable soup with every throb of his head, every twist of pain across his ribs. All he wanted was sleep. And a drink. And five burgers.

Too much to ask? No, he didn't think so.

They trudged on and on and on until finally, they stopped. Peter's focus shifted from making his legs move to his surroundings, and he slowly realized they were standing in a rickety old elevator.

His eyes watered even though the flickering lights were barely bright enough to see the buttons, concussion blowing everything to unreasonable proportion.

He collapsed against the back wall, groan matching that of the old contraption as it carried them upwards.

"Almost there," Steve mumbled, eyeing the floor numbers and the boy simultaneously. If he noticed the sickly pallor of Peter's face he didn't let on. Steve ushered him down the hall, stopping in front of a garishly painted door.

Peter wrinkled his nose, glaring at the peeling green paint, "thas' th' color of th' soup May made th'ther day."

"Ew," the man mumbled in amusement, shuffling him inside and locking the door behind them.

Peter immediately threw up.

"Ah . . . _shit_ ," a voice cursed. Distantly he felt hands on his back and shoulders, supporting his trembling body as it caught up to the past several hours.

When he finally, blessedly quit retching he raised a shaky hand to his lips and did his best to wipe the spittle and bitter vomit away, only for it to be pulled away and a dish towel to be pressed into his palm. He mumbled a vague thanks.

The ringing in his ears was getting worse.

He felt Steve's rough hand on his back rubbing jerky circles as he talked in low tones to someone just over the his head.

Peter slowly realized that they were kneeling on the floor of a small kitchen.

"F'ck.  . .s'ry."

Steve's other hand squeezed his shoulder, "it's alright. We've all been there. Think you can stand?"

Peter tried to straighten up, but his ribs still screamed from the stress of throwing up, and he could feel a steady trickle of warm blood starting to once again leak from the ugly stab wound in his shoulder.

He nodded shakily, nonetheless, and painstakingly stood with the help of the super soldier. After a few steps, his legs gave in and Steve almost literally carried him into another room and deposited him on an overly-springy bed.

"I'll be right back, don't move."

Internally, Peter snorted. As if he would even try. He blinked once and the next thing he knew he was asleep.

-

_"Can’t . . . with everything she's been through. . ."_

Can't move. Can't breathe.

 _". . . Peter . . . just don't think we should_ do _this. . "_

Panic flooding his gut, can't get out can't breathe-

_". . . So young . . . don't understand how the world works. . ."_

Jagged shadow pressing in from every angle. Bones straining. Cracking. Breaking.

_". . . without . . . the . . . suit . . .”_

Throat tightening, jaw unhinging, scream falling out of his mouth in a sticky metallic ooze-

_". . . be . . . better. . ."_

Ribs curling inward, piercing lungs, heart, touching his spine and not stopping, shattering vertebrae and tearing skin as they emerged out his back-

 _". . . get her_ **airborne** _-"_

Peter's eyes shot open and his body sucked a deep breath as if emerging from the depths of a raging ocean, throat burning from the effort. He could feel a heavy hand on his clammy forehead, feel two callused fingers pressed into his neck, feel his heart racing against them.

". . .inally. Been under an hour sinc. . . set in so fast. . ."

Peter didn't try to speak, just squeezed his eyes shut and gulped deep breaths, willing his body to settle and mind to stop replaying the nightmare.

". . .sleep paralysis but h. . . dunno. . ."

Several voices drifted around his head. He couldn't tell which were echoes and which were real.

"Peter? My name is Sam, I need you to open your eyes real quick."

That voice was. . . familiar, definitely real. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes and took in the dark face swirling above his own. The man smiled kindly, removing the hand from his head and placing it on his chest. Ribs. Heart. Spine.

Peter whimpered.

"It's alright. You're safe. You passed out for about an hour and had a nightmare or something, stopped breathing."

Peter's eyes flickered shut again. Fuck, his body hurt all over.

"Try to drink this and you can go back to sleep," the man murmured as he helped lift his head and poured luke-warm water over his tongue via water bottle.

One part of Peter, the embarrassed and hurt part, wanted to push it away and get the hell out of dodge- leave these twisted heroes behind and forget it ever happened. But the other part, the dangerously curious and tired part, wanted to sleep and then wake up, talk to these people who seemed so contradictory.

The exhaustion and curiosity won over and he allowed himself to slip beneath the waves yet again.

-

Peter woke to the sound of several people speaking harshly the next room over. That, added to the sound of a baby wailing one floor up, a domestic dispute two doors down, and a large glass container shattering below them became the world's most overwhelming alarm clock. Peter's unnaturally sensitive hearing picked it all up at full volume, causing him to reach up and shove his hands over both ears.

Hands, he realized, that were thickly wrapped in gauze and anti-burn cream that smelled of sterilizing chemicals and lavender. He ran them along his torso and took stock of the rest of the bandages, one on each shoulder, one taped to the cut at the back of his head. More of the burn cream was spread over his arms and cheekbone.

Based on the weak light filtering through the boarded up window, he predicted that his body had had enough time to fix the smaller of his injuries. . .unwrapping his hands proved the suspicions correct, the ugly blisters and bubbling skin of the night before only slightly pink in the dim morning light.

As he gently set the strips of cloth on the bed beside his hip, he listened to the low conversation in the next room, easy to zero in on since the door was open. Not so easy when his brain seemed to take the concentration as permission to re-awaken the merciless headache permeating his skull.

Stubbornly he breathed through it and cocked one ear, listening harder.

". . . sure Stark isn't more involved with him? I mean, he's reckless but surely not this reckless?"

The wing dude, Sam? Sam. The voice that answered with a scoff had to belong to James Barnes.

"Um, are we talking about the same billionaire? The one who flies around in a fully weaponized tin can as a hobby?"

"This doesn't even make his List of Top Ten Reckless Decisions. Trust me, I'm sure."

Captain Rogers. That deep conviction was laced with worry. What was he worried about?

Were they really worried about _him?_

Peter ground his teeth in irritation, concussion be damned.

He'd just accomplished more than he'd thought possible, sacrificed a whole possible future and _still_ these people don't take him seriously? He doesn't need protecting, he can take care of his own damn self.

Pushing himself out of bed made every single injury light up in neon, making themselves known with sickening vigor.

Allowing his body to adjust to the new standing position, he stood next to the bed and considered simply walking right out the door. He was really not in the mood for another scolding or interrogation. In fact, what he really needed was a shower, several boxes of pizza, and the endless chatter of his best friend to distract him from the anxiety bubbling in his chest.

"Pete?"

Peter flinched, realizing too late that the voices had stopped talking a couple minutes ago, the hulking shadow of Steve Rogers filling the doorway pressing any thought of childish escape out of his sluggish brain.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Peter gritted out, throat hoarse with smoke inhalation and sleep. His mouth tasted like a sewer from not rinsing it out after throwing up last night and he cringed at the memory, neck flushing in shame at the thought of tossing his cookies surrounded by some of the world's most renowned names.

God he needed to _leave._

"Want breakfast?" Steve ignored Peter's probably obvious embarrassment and waved a hand down the hall, face a warm invitation. There was something there, in the faint lines around his eyes that hinted something harsher than friendly concern. Not all of it was aimed toward Peter, he could tell, but still it was unnerving to see.

Nodding, Peter followed at a shuffle, right arm rising to wrap loosely around his broken and bruised rib cage as they went.

Both Sam and Bucky were lounging at the table and Peter sunk into the offered chair with a grunt, eyeing them with as guarded an expression as he could muster.

He honestly had no idea how they would react to him being here, especially since the last time he'd seen them he'd thrown them through a glass wall and webbed them to the concrete where they landed.

This was . . . a completely different ballroom. Completely different mannerisms and expectations. No masks, no agenda, no weapons.

Just some bruises and piles of slightly burnt Eggo waffles.

"How you feeling kid?"

Peter considered Sam's carefully casual face, matching it with his own as he answered: "Like I just climbed out from under a building and crashed a jet on top of a megalomaniac."

"Not so great then."

"Wait, a building? What do you mean _under_?"

Peter faltered, caught off guard by Bucky's intense stare, blue eyes doing nothing to hide the concern behind his question.

"Uh- I . . . Toomes had his wings rigged to knock the warehouse down and I uh- was under it."

Sam stared at him, then over the boy's shoulder where Steve had stopped collecting utensils from the drawers to shoot them a perturbed glance.

"Damn kid. That explains that episode from earlier I guess, your body was having trouble making sense of what your brain was telling it."

Peter shifted in his seat, "What?"

"You had a nightmare or something and the stress triggered sleep paralysis. You stopped breathing and I was scared we'd have to do something drastic like zap you with Nat's fancy bracelets."

Peter vaguely remembered Black Widow's terrifying weapon of choice in Germany, the taser things hidden in her suit that Tony had warned him against.

"Um thanks for not electrocuting me on top of everything. I appreciate it, really."

"No problem, luckily you snapped out of it or we wouldn't be sitting here right now."

Peter wondered what would have happened if he hadn't. Would they have dropped him off at a nearby clinic? Maybe dragged him to a nearby alley and made it look like they were never there? Or . . . maybe called Tony?

No. They weren't that stupid to toss everything in exchange for some random kid's life, especially a random kid who had just literally blown up a personal mission.

"Sorry for ruining your stuff."

Steve walked around the table, setting plates and utensils in front of them as he spoke:

"It's alright. Nothing too important, just a few sketchbooks and gear and stuff."

If he was lying, Peter couldn't tell. He accepted the plate and plastic fork from him and let Captain Fucking America pour syrup over his waffles.

 _I really need to stop referring to him as Captain Fucking America,_ Peter mused as he took a sticky bite. _But to be fair, this is Captain Mother_ Fucking _America-_

"How'd you heal so fast?"

Sam's inquiry drew him out of his hero-worshipping thoughts and he glanced at the men, who were trying not to look like they were staring at his healed hands and yellowing bruises as they shoved their faces full of mediocre breakfast food.

Steve had a darkening shadow of suspicion over his face as he looked back down at his plate, causing Peter to put his fork down and hold his own hands up to examine.

Sure enough, in the brighter morning light he could better see that his hands and arms were only a raw pink where there should be blisters and charred skin, and the bruises that he could see already looked a couple days old, even though he'd barely gotten them not six hours ago.

He considered lying to them, making up some lame cover story like "it wasn't that bad to begin with, you guys just _thought_  I looked like some Lost reject last night-" but then he remembered that they already knew his name and probably more than even Mr. Stark knew, since Black _Fucking_ Widow (there it goes again) was buddy-buddy with them. So what harm could the truth do, really? (A lot, he reminded himself), that didn't stop his exhausted brain from spitting it out anyway.

"I was bit by a radioactive spider and it gave me powers and shit like enhanced healing and inhuman strength and stuff."

"Yeah, I remember," Bucky snorted.

Peter shrugged, apologetic.

"A spider?" Steve still looked suspicious, and Peter wondered why until he remembered- Mr. Stark's dad had helped in the experiments that created Captain America, maybe Steve thought Tony had a hand in what Peter was now. The thought annoyed him more than he thought it would.

"It wasn't Mr. Stark's doing, it was . . . someone else."

Steve looked slightly relieved, but still a bit concerned, returning to his waffles and gesturing with his fork.

"Eat, son. No doubt you're starving after last night. I always am after a mission."

This was a bit absurd, Peter thought hazily as he shoved his face with soggy Eggo waffles. He could just  _see_  Tony's face when he told him-

The door creaked open and all four pairs of eyes watched Natasha Romanoff slip through, kicking it shut with one fluid movement as she plopped several grocery bags on the counter.

"Wasn't much left but I managed to snag some small stuff."

She was wearing civvies, but there were a couple streaks of soot on her sleeves that didn't scream Pure Wal-Mart Trip.

Peter was proven right when she tossed a black bag at Steve and he opened it gingerly, sorting through its contents to pull out a worn sketchbook.

"I didn't think you were telling the truth," Peter blurted as the super soldier ruffled through the pages with a small smile on his face.

Natasha snagged a waffle from Sam's plate and bit into it like toast.

"You animal," he grumbled.

"Arachnid, actually," she corrected, turning to Peter, "and you are too, apparently."

Peter swallowed, willing himself not to make a fool out of himself or channel his inner-Ned.

No such luck.

"Um y-yeah spiders. Kinda a thing I guess-" he swallowed again and cleared his throat, trying his best to sink into the chair when he felt the heat in his cheeks.

"Don't scare the kid, Romanov, he's dealt with enough creepy animal themed adults as it is."

"First of all, that's weird," she shot at Bucky, "and second, I'm trying to recruit him to the Club. Sorry you're still salty your admission got rejected. Shouldn't have named yourself after a fucking _season_."

Peter stared wide eyed as they bickered. Whatever attitude he had thought these guys would have with each other, this wasn't it. Ned was going to flip his shit.

Holy shit that reminded him.

"What time is it?" He demanded, suddenly sick with anxiety.

"Uh, seven thirty-nine. Why? Got more ass to kick at your eight o'clock?"

Peter ignored Sam's quip in favor of searching his pockets for his phone with clumsy hands.

Steve piped up, "If you're looking for your phone, I charged it while you were asleep, someone named Guy in the Chair texted you like fifty times?"

"Shit ah- that's my friend. He probably thinks I'm dead by now."

The man pointed with his thumb to where the half broken device sat on the dusty windowsill behind them.

Peter scrambled from his chair and turned it on, scrolling through the frantic messages before shooting a quick:

_*I'm good. Is May on kill mode yet?*_

Immediately Ned texted back:

_*thank fck I was abt to throw rocks at Iron Man's windows to see if u were dead!!_

_No I told her ur at my place but u better get here fast mom's alomst home*_

Peter swore quietly, glancing back at the scattered Avengers who weren't even _trying_ to pretend they weren't interested in what he was doing. 

They sent him shared questioning glances as he edged around the table and sat heavily in the rickety chair, ribs screamed at him angrily over the handling but he ignored them, too caught up with the anxiety whipping around his stomach.  The soggy waffles didn't seem so appetizing in the face of going home.

God, Tony was probably never going to speak to him again. He'd just wrecked one of his planes worth millions of dollars and that didn't even include the shit  _inside_ - he groaned and dropped his face into his hands

"Pete? What's up?"

"Mr. Stark's gonna hate me."

Bucky snorted, "welcome to the club, pal."

Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

Steve ignored them, "why? What did you do?"

Peter raised his face, staring incredulous at Steve.

"I just blew up an entire cargo plane full of Avengers stuff and you're asking me what I did like you _didn't_ follow me from that literally burning beach?"

"Peter, we saw you take that guy down, I dunno who he is or what he wanted, but with what was on that ship it was nothing good. Tony would have been in deeper shit if he'd gotten away with it."

While Peter considered his words, they did nothing to set his unease at bay. This was colossal. It had consequences. It was the biggest mess-up he’d ever made in his life- and that thought was stressful enough to make his spidey-sense buzz uncomfortably at the base of his skull.  

“I, uh. I gotta go,” he mumbled, standing up again and glancing at Natasha, “You guys aren’t going to knock me out and leave me on the street to protect your location right?”

They laughed and Steve raised an affronted eyebrow, “We’re not some evil cult, Pete. Not matter what Tony tries to get you to believe.”

“Oh good, 'cause I’ve already got a big enough headache as it is.”

“We were about to head out anyway,” Sam announced as he finished his waffles, “we have what we came for and I’m not sure if Tony can pick up on the new scrambler or not, so even if you did tell him where we are we’re gonna be long gone by the time he hauls his short ass down here.”

Peter nodded stiffly, frowning as he made it to the door.

Saying goodbye felt weird, as Steve had literally just plucked him off the street and let him sleep through the worst of . . . whatever the night had plagued him with in their hole-in-the-wall hide out and fed him freezer waffles. Also, he got the feeling he’d be seeing more of them sometime soon. Even if it was for another impromptu fight across the globe.

“I’ll see you guys around I guess.”

“See ya kid. And don’t crash anymore planes, that’s my thing!”

He could hear Bucky smack Steve upside the head as he closed the door with a small snort of laughter.

If he was honest with himself he kinda _hoped_ he could see them again.

Not that he was going to tell Mr. Stark that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of this fic but I might do a 5+1 of Peter and "the gang" (these ^ dweebs). Shoot me any prompts you might want to see (even with other characters aside from these) on my tumblr @ charlies-not-here bc I'm in the mood to write.


End file.
